


But If You Kissed Me Now, I Know You'd Fool Me Again

by thefairfleming



Series: Wars of the Mistletoe [1]
Category: The White Princess (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-30 01:17:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16755079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/pseuds/thefairfleming
Summary: A generations-long struggle over one (1) Welsh Country House results in an Unexpected Christmas Gathering OR: I Turn The Wars of the Roses In A Hallmark Movie





	But If You Kissed Me Now, I Know You'd Fool Me Again

Henry’s plans for Christmas had been simple- Wales, whisky, and work. His mother was spending the holidays with his stepfather’s family and his uncle Jasper had been talked into a cruise by his new wife, Katherine, leaving Henry on his own. And since it was the Tudors year to have the house in Wales at Christmas, it made sense to head up there for the week, catch up on work without any distractions.

Well, with  _ one _ distraction. He’d invited Maud to come with him even though it was a little early to be doing the whole “spend the holidays together” thing, but he liked her, she seemed to like him, and the house was secluded. Romantic, even, with its massive four-poster beds and charming fireplaces and views of the mountains.

So Wales, whisky, work, and sex, then, as solid a Christmas agenda as one man could hope for, really.

But when he’d gone to pick Maud up from her flat in Cardiff that afternoon, she’d taken one look at the stack of files in the backseat, and suddenly there’d been all these questions about how much work he was planning on doing, why was he even  _ bringing _ work, maybe she had the wrong idea about what this week was supposed to be, she hadn’t turned down  _ Chamonix _ to watch him  _ futz about with paperwork _ , and Henry had watched the “romantic week with Maud,” part of his Christmas plans flounce off, Louis Vuitton carry-all still dangling from one elbow.

Then, as he’d driven North, the weather had turned, the skies darkening, a mix of sleet and the occasional snow flurry slowing traffic to a crawl, and making Henry’s fingers tighten on the wheel in irritation. He’d hoped to reach the house before nightfall, and that clearly wasn’t happening.

But now, as he drove up the narrow, twisting road to Gwyn Rhosyn, he consoled himself with the fact that he still had his original plan- he was in Wales, he had a gorgeous bottle of Macallan 12 year in his bag, and he’d be able to finally get ahead on the Wycombe merger, the case that had been a thorn in his firm’s side for months now, something Maud  _ should've _ understood, her father being a partner and all, which was why it really was rather annoy-

Henry brought his car to a stop in front of the house, all thoughts of Maud, the merger, and the shite weather flying completely out of his head as he took in the scene before him.

There were lights on.

There was smoke coming from more than one of the chimneys.

And there was an ancient- and familiar- Land Rover parked in the circular gravel drive just in front of the house.

For a moment, Henry wondered if he’d somehow gotten his dates wrong, which would just be the cherry on top of the absolute shit sundae this day had already been, but no, he knew he hadn’t. It was an even year. The Tudors always got the house on even years. 

Which meant that, as per usual, the Yorks were ignoring the bloody rules and doing whatever they bloody well pleased.

“I think the fuck not,” Henry muttered to himself, then threw open the car door.

Gwyn Rhosyn wasn’t one of the most impressive houses in Wales- it was basically a glorified hunting lodge, built back in the 1500s, added onto in each century until it was something of a hodge-podge of styles, the front door massive and oaken and very medieval, the conservatory in the back Victorian, the drawing rooms Georgian. There were only ten bedrooms, and indoor plumbing hadn’t been added until the 60s. Even now, the house was a nightmare to heat in the winter, and the less said about the Spider Incident of Summer 1997, the better. 

And yet this unremarkable house had been at the center of a massive legal battle between two families, the genesis of which went back, as far as Henry knew, to the house’s construction. Lawyers hadn’t gotten involved until later, but by the time Henry was born, the legal battle for Gwyn Rhosyn was on its third generation. 

Eventually, the entire thing got too costly and too ridiculous for anyone to keep throwing money at, hence the compromise- even years, the house was Henry and his mother’s to do with as they liked. Odd, it belonged to the Yorks. The solution had worked fairly well, save that one horrible Christmas Henry had been at university and the families had attempted to share for the week. Henry still shuddered to remember it, he and his mother at one end of the house, all nine thousand Yorks on the other, a constant war for the three bathrooms, the argument over using the oven on Christmas morning, the nonsense with the mistletoe and Lizzie York.

No, splitting the house suited everyone except, apparently, spoiled brats who had to have whatever they wanted whenever they wanted it.

Well, she wasn’t getting her way this time, Henry vowed as he fumbled for the key to the front door on his keychain.

The first thing that hit him when he pushed open the door was the music. 

It was like stepping into a particularly horrible shopping center, the sounds of “Last Christmas” assaulting his ears from….everywhere. Jesus Christ, had she wired up speakers?

Moving into the front hall, Henry looked around him. 

Just beyond the door was the great room, an open space with a fireplace big enough for an entire oak. A fire roared cozily there now, and in the center of the room, there was a Christmas tree twinkling with what looked like thousands of brightly colored lights. His mother always chose a smaller tree with sedate white lights, and Henry felt like he should shield his eyes looking at this one. 

Tinsel had been draped over the banister of the staircase, and when he glanced up- of course. Mistletoe. A huge sprig of it tied with a droopy red ribbon. 

Grimacing, Henry pulled off his gloves and shoved them in his pockets, then began unwinding his scarf from around his neck. He’d just started on the buttons of his coat when he heard, “What are you doing here?”

Lizzie York stood above him in the gallery that looked down on the entrance hall. 

She should’ve looked ridiculous. She  _ did _ look ridiculous, wearing red striped leggings, fuzzy green socks, and a white sweater trimmed in fur, not to mention-

“What on earth is on your head?” he asked.

She took a sip from the martini glass she held aloft before answering, “Extra tinsel. I haven’t decided it if it’s a halo or a crown yet. Possibly a halo-crown.”

Another sip. A slurp, really, audible even over all that wailing about hearts being given away. Frowning slightly, Henry realized there was a miniature candy cane dangling from the rim of the glass, and Lizzie lifted the drink to him in a mock toast. “Peppermint Martini,” she said. “Want one?”

“Christ no,” he replied, and she shrugged, making her way down the stairs, her sweater slipping from one shoulder, and he wondered how she managed to look so damn elegant despite….everything.

And then Henry remembered that he was supposed to be throwing her out, not admiring her fucking posture.

“This is my year,” he reminded her, raising his voice over the music. “For the house. I should be asking you what  _ you’re _ doing here.”

Lizzie stood on the bottom step and, her eyes never leaving his face, drained her martini. Then, when she lowered the glass, said, “You didn’t put it on the calendar.”

“The calendar?” he repeated, then remembered and rolled his eyes. “That email your aunt sent with the Google thing. No, as I said in my reply, that’s ridiculous and unnecessary given that we already have an agreement splitting time.”

“It’s not ridiculous or unnecessary because if the house isn’t being used, regardless as to whose year it is, it should be fair game.”

“That’s...not how any of this is meant to work,” Henry replied, fighting the urge to bang his head against the nearest post.

Another shrug. “It’s how it  _ should _ work,” Lizzie replied. “So when I saw you hadn’t put anything on the calendar-,”

“I have  _ never  _ put anything on that sodding calendar.”

“I decided to spend Christmas up here on my own,” Lizzie continued, completely ignoring him.

“Well,” Henry said, finally taking off his coat, “you can’t. Because I’m spending Christmas here on  _ my _ own, and it is  _ my _ year.”

Tilting her head to one side, Lizzie studied him, then almost absently plucked the candy cane from the side of her empty glass and stuck it between her lips.

The shot of lust that ran through him was unwelcome but, sadly, not completely unexpected. 

_ It’s only because you’d thought you’d spend this weekend with Maud _ , he tried to tell himself.  _ Your body still thinks sex is on the agenda for this week, which it very much is  _ not,  _ so calm the fuck down. _

Except that he’d always felt this uneasy mix of attraction and antagonism where Lizzie was concerned, and watching her suck on a candy cane while she was all rumpled and soft, golden hair curling over her shoulders, would’ve made any man’s knees go a bit weak.

She pulled the peppermint stick from between her lips with a little  _ pop _ then pointed it at him. “Squatter’s Rights,” she finally said, and Henry stared at her.

“Pardon?”  
“Squatter’s Rights,” she repeated. “I have them. So you can’t throw me out.” And then she grinned. “And let’s be honest- even though you are most _certainly_ a Scrooge Type, not even _you_ would throw me out in the snow three days before Christmas.”

“I would hardly be throwing you out in the snow,” Henry said, folding his arms over his chest. “First of all, it’s barely snowing. Secondly, you have a family. A massive one. Go spend Christmas with them.”

The shadow that passed over her face was gone so quickly Henry almost wondered if he imagined it. And surely he must have because she lifted the candy cane and snapped the very tip off between her teeth. “I’m not feeling the big family Christmas this year,” she said lightly, turning away and drifting into the great room where, Henry noticed, she’d set up the bar cart. He spotted a giant bottle of Grey Goose, plus another, smaller bottle of peppermint schnapps, and wrinkled his nose before saying, “Well, as the saying goes, you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

Pouring healthy shots of both the vodka and the schnapps into a shaker, Lizzie glanced back over her shoulder at him just as “Last Christmas” finally came to a blessed end.

Only to start over again after a handful of seconds.

“Do you...have this on repeat?” he asked, and she turned back to her drink, shaking for all she was worth.

“I’m making new traditions,” she called over the rattle of the ice. “Don’t judge me, Tudor.”

When the drink had been shaken to her satisfaction, she poured it into her empty glass and then took a second martini glass, filling it as well.

“I told you I didn’t want one,” Henry said, but he took the glass from her when she handed it to him anyway.

“I have a proposal,” she said, crossing one foot in front of the other.

“Bloody hell,” Henry muttered and then, in spite of his better judgement, he took a sip of the drink. It was as foul as he’d thought it would be- rather like drinking mouthwash- but he needed to be fortified for this conversation.

“You are not going to do anything Christmas-y while you’re here, are you.” It wasn’t a question, so Henry didn’t feel the need to answer, but apparently his silence was an answer in and of itself given Lizzie’s smug smile and nod. 

“Right,” she went on. “And I  _ could _ be persuaded to go back to London for New Year’s Eve.”

“How magnanimous of you to grace terrible parties in Chelsea with your presence.”

Lizzie dipped her candy cane back into her drink, then flicked it at him. “My  _ point _ is that I want the house for Christmas, and Christmas clearly doesn’t mean much to you, but you wanted some time to yourself, and I don’t like missing New Year’s. And on New Year’s day, this place  _ technically _ becomes my family’s, so you shouldn’t be here anyway.”

“Did you put that on the calendar?” Henry asked, but once again, Lizzie acted as though he hadn’t spoken.

“So I propose we just split it. I get Christmas here, you can have everything after.”

Henry watched her warily over the rim of his glass. “What, I clear out for the next three days, then you clear out on Boxing Day?”

“By George Michael, I think he’s got it.”

Rolling his eyes again, Henry took another sip of his drink, only to shudder and stare at the glass. “This is genuinely revolting,” he said, “and you should be ashamed of yourself for making it.”

“Do we have a deal or not?” Lizzie thrust out her free hand.

He shouldn’t agree. He had all the rights in the world here to claim the house for the entire ten days, the entire  _ month _ if he wanted it. 

But then he thought of that brief moment her smile had faltered when he’d asked about her family. Not to mention all the work she’d already put into making the place festive. Well, festive on her own terms.

God, but he was a sucker.

“Fine,” he said at last, putting his hand in hers and shaking twice. “But I’m not leaving until tomorrow morning. I’ve been in the car all bloody day, and I’m not attempting to find a hotel until daylight.”

“Fair,” Lizzie said. “In that case, I’ll turn the music down, but not off.”

“Also fair,” he conceded, then handed her back the martini glass. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go get my bags and also something to wash this wretched taste out of my mouth.”

He’d just made it back to the front door when Lizzie called, “Henry?”

Turning, he saw her standing there, both glasses in hand, and she nodded, her gaze going above his head.

When he looked up, he realized he was once again underneath the mistletoe he’d spotted earlier, and, as stupid as it was, he felt he face suddenly go hot.

“Take that down on your way out, would you?” she asked before turning back to the bar cart. “We don’t need a repeat of  _ that _ particular debacle.”

He wished he had some easy retort on the tip of his tongue, but nothing came, so he simply reached up, jumping a little, and tore the offending piece of decor down, shoving it in his pocket.

As he opened the door to the blustery night, Henry breathed in the cold air and thanked god that tomorrow, he’d be away from this house.

Away from her.


End file.
